


Compilation of Sherlock WG Stories

by MycroftFeels



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fat Character, Fat appreciaton, Fat fetish, Feeding, Feedism, Food Issues, M/M, Weight Gain, erotic weight gain, feederism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-01
Updated: 2013-03-14
Packaged: 2017-11-11 05:41:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 10,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/475131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MycroftFeels/pseuds/MycroftFeels
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All the Sherlock Weight Gain Stories I've written so far. Read at your own risk!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Lacking Something

**Author's Note:**

> One day John gets injured. He'll be in hospital for a bit. Sherlock basically stress-eats until John is allowed home again

Ever since John got injured, Sherlock was far too worried to do anything more than sit around Baker Street, waiting for him to come home. He had gotten shot during a case, and Sherlock blamed himself for having dragged him along. It was not a major injury; the bullet had barely touched anything more than skin and some muscle, but the doctors were determined to keep him in for at least two weeks, until they were sure there wouldn't be any complications.  
Visiting hours were comforting; John was generally in a good mood and they would pretend nothing had happened and simply chat about anything. On the other hand, being alone in the apartment was not at all easy for Sherlock. You see, he didn't usually care for food, even when he was hungry he never ate more than what was necessary to function, but he was a text book case of the classical stress eater. And John being in hospital stressed him to no end. What if he had to undergo surgery? Or if he caught an infection? Or a disease from another patient? The answer to those questions was obviously food. On his way home from the hospital he would enter every grocery store in his way and buy whatever he had money for. He'd then proceed to consume package after package of cookies, ice cream and crisps until everything he had bought was gone.  
He had noticed he had begun to put on weight, but stopping was simply not an option. He would stop worrying when John came home from the hospital and then and only then he would stop eating. Food was a soothing and faithful friend.  
That afternoon for the first time, Sherlock had trouble buttoning his pants. He was going to the hospital and thought it would be impossible for John not to notice the small but definitely perceivable belly poking out of his trousers. He didn't take his coat off for the entire visit, just in case. John didn't seem to care too much. Good. He knew he would have to face the truth sooner or later, however, which only stressed him out a little bit more. He brought home a cake that night.  
A couple of days later, John went back to Baker Street, as good as new. When he walked through the door he saw that Sherlock appeared to be covering himself his every single piece of clothing he owned.  
-What are you doing?  
-What do you mean?  
-Sherlock, it's a hundred degrees out there, why don't you lose the sweater? And the coat?  
Sherlock simply mumbled something that sounded like 'I'm not hot' under his breath and John had to laugh.  
-You are sweating through those clothes.  
-Fine! I'll take them off if it bothers you so much!  
John was baffled at his friend's behavior so he just stood there in silence while Sherlock rid himself of layers and layers of clothing. In the end, he was only wearing a shirt and trousers. There was something… different. John couldn't quite put his finger in it but it… Oh… Oh! He suddenly realized why his roommate has acting so strangely. His clothes looked painfully tight around his midsection and his belly was positively rounder and softer. Sherlock's face was the brightest shade of red John had ever seen.  
-Yes, I know John, I'm fat. Now if you please could stop staring.  
-I would hardly call that fat, Sherlock. You look… cute  
He regretted the word immediately after he said it. Sherlock looked enraged.  
-Cute? My stomach is almost hanging out of my trousers and you think I look cute?  
-Honestly? I think you look great.  
Sherlock's gaze was so intense John feared he may jump him and tear him into pieces. And after that confession, it was his turn to go bright red all over.  
-Really?  
-Yes. Yes I do. I think it's a little… sexy.  
It was all said. Sherlock slowly advanced towards him, and John wasn't sure if he should run, but he certainly wanted to. Suddenly and without warning, Sherlock grabbed him by the back of the neck and kissed him with such passion John thought his knees would fail him. He placed his hands instinctively on Sherlock's protruding tummy and slowly rubbed the new softness there. John could feel Sherlock's smile through their kiss.


	2. Face to Face

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock makes fun of Mycroft's weight because he's embarrassed about the fact that Mycroft's tendency to overeat and gain turns him on.

Contrary to popular belief, his brother visiting was mostly a joyous occasion for Sherlock Holmes. Well, that is, if he had gained any weight. If he came to Baker Street with a freshly tailored suit and smug look on his face, Sherlock simply knew the visit wouldn't be any fun. Luckily for Sherlock, Mycroft didn't lose weight too often. No, Mycroft would keep his weight at bay for a few months -if he really tried- and after that he would simply give in to his greatest weakness and eat himself silly, until pants and shirts and belts had to be hidden in the back of his closet or thrown away in shame because they would simply not fit anymore. Sherlock adored not seeing Mycroft for weeks, because then he knew that he was hiding from him, and that the next time he saw him he would have added pounds and pounds of soft flesh to his ever-expanding waistline. Sherlock would then proceed to mercilessly poke fun at his older brother, who could not do more than silently and sulkingly agree with his brother's taunts.  
Mycroft Holmes did the best he could to avoid these situations. He was on a diet more often than not and he would stick to it the best he could. The problem was that his 'best' wasn't even remotely good enough. A tiny wee taste of this here, a couple of these little harmless things there… Before he knew it he was right back where he had started and may be a little heavier too. He just couldn't resist food. His will-power failed him at the mere sight of fresh pastries, luscious desserts, succulent fat-filled meals... He just found everything to be so delicious! Mycroft was deeply ashamed of the permanent softness of his belly and he certainly didn't enjoy Sherlock's mocking, but if a three layer cake was at hand's reach that thing didn't stand a chance in this world. For a man like him, a perfectionist to say the least, this was a constant reminder of his flaws and limitations.  
The next time Mycroft saw Sherlock he hadn't found the time to visit his tailor first. His trousers were digging deep into his midsection and there was no way on earth anyone –let alone Sherlock- could miss that sight. His brother was helping him with a case that seemed simple enough, but had demanded to see him in person to inform Mycroft of his conclusions. When he arrived, the half-contained smile on the younger man's face revealed such bliss that is was hard to overlook it. Mycroft braced himself.  
-My big brother, I see life is treating you well.  
-Marvelous, Sherlock. Do you have the documents?  
-Why so eager to leave, Mycroft? Tea time doesn't come for another hour; I promise those cupcakes will be right there waiting for you when you go back to the office.  
-I hardly have the time for your pestering Sherlock; do try to be more mature.  
-Of course you don't, all that food's not gonna eat itself.  
With a sigh, Mycroft snapped the documents out of his brother's hands and left the apartment. How the hell did he know he was having cupcakes with tea was beyond him. Oh, of course. It was Friday.  
Mycroft had been extremely good with his diet lately. He didn't even cheat. Well, maybe once. Or twice. But he had managed to lose a couple of pounds and was feeling pretty optimistic about the whole situation. Sherlock thought otherwise.  
When Mycroft arrived home that evening he found a little present from his brother. He usually sent him boxes of chocolates and refined pastries that Mycroft stubbornly ignored for a few days and ended up eating anyway, despite his best efforts. This time he didn't look at the package twice, though. Whatever it was, keeping it at home would be too tempting for him, so he grabbed it and threw it directly into his bin. He was proud of himself. So proud he even phoned Sherlock to tell him the good news.  
-I thought you should know little brother, that you are wasting your money. That box you sent me has been discarded already. You should be more careful in investing your income since you clearly do not have a job. Not a real one that is.  
-Lying is not becoming of you, Mycroft. And neither is your girth, in case you've forgotten... But then again, how could you?  
At that point Mycroft just lost it. After all, he hadn't eaten any carbs or sugar in days.  
-Why is it that you obsess with my weight so much, Sherlock? I cannot seem to figure it out. I have narrowed down to two options, nonetheless, either you mercilessly hate me or you simply do it for fun. Does it amuse you? Turn you on?  
It was cheap, he knew it. Dumb and cheap. That implication was a new low for him and he would pay for it. So he waited. He waited for a witty response that never came. Sherlock seemed at a loss for words. After a few seconds of silence Sherlock simply hanged up on him.  
A couple of days later, Mycroft showed up in Baker Street. Sherlock was facing the other way and didn't turn to face him when he entered the room.  
-You have all figured out, don't you? Are you here to mock me? Tell me I'm insane?  
-Where is John, Sherlock?  
-I don't know, travelling somewhere. It's Christmas soon, is it not? I think he said something about Harry… What are you doing here Mycroft?  
He turned around to an unexpected picture. In Mycroft's hands was an open box of freshly baked donuts. When he left it on the table by his side, Sherlock immediately noticed that he had obviously gained back the pounds he had lost -and then some- and that he was wearing what seemed to be the smallest suit he owned; the pants were impossibly tight and his belly was simply hanging out over the beltline. Sherlock's cock twitched anxiously at the sight. The shirt, however difficult the task seemed, was tucked inside the pants and covered it all. Sherlock silently cursed at that shirt.  
-What is this?  
-I have it all figured out, indeed. You enjoy the way my body looks when I…hm, shall we say, indulge, and I enjoy indulging. I can't help myself actually. So I concluded that we should take advantage of the situation. Do you not think so?  
He grabbed one of the donuts from the table and took a large bite. Sherlock didn't hesitate for even a second. Without a word he lounged forward and took the rest from his hand. He then proceeded to feed it to Mycroft bit by bit while rubbing his soft stomach. He got rid of the shirt quick enough and appreciated the sight.  
-Hm, it seems we've been 'indulging' quite a bit, haven't we?  
He poked his belly with a long finger and watched it sink in Mycroft's fat. Sherlock bit his lower lip and tried to contain a joyful smile.  
Mycroft looked slightly embarrassed at first but then he seemed to find his place in all that and played along. He put his hand over Sherlock's and run it over his waistline.  
-You know I just can't get enough.  
Mycroft's smile was positively devious. Sherlock simply grabbed another donut from the box and stated  
-Oh, we'll see about that.


	3. Feeding the Boys Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mrs. Hudson has a bit of a feeding kink and has been secretly feeding her boys up. SHERLOCKxJOHN

John was feeling a little… different, of late. He had noticed that his clothes were fitting him somehow uncomfortably for a while, but now, staring at his reflection in the mirror, he simply had to admit that he was looking positively plump. He had lifted his shirt to get a full view of his belly; it was a lot rounder and softer than he remembered. John was aware that Sherlock had put on some weight too, but on him it wasn't so evident. Sherlock had always been extremely tall and thin, and some added weight only made him look healthier. John, on the other hand, simply looked chubby. He sighed and walked away from the mirror, covering his belly up before going out of his bedroom and having to face his roommate.  
Sherlock was sitting on the table, reading the paper and chewing on something that, even from afar, certainly looked delicious. He looked up to meet John's gaze.  
-John, you need to try these.  
Sherlock declared, while taking a considerable bite off his éclair.  
-Mrs. Hudson bought pastries from that place around the corner again.  
John silently cursed at his inexistent will-power and grabbed a huge cream puff off the plate.  
-Since when do you get so excited about food?  
-Since I became aware of the existence of these.  
He joyfully lifted the rest of his éclair in the air and, immediately after, he made it disappear into his mouth. He then grabbed something else from the plate.  
-Oh, I'll leave you the jam tart, I know you like those…  
John bit his lower lip, torn between ignoring Sherlock's offer and finishing that entire plate in a split of a second. He took the tart in his hands but didn't dare to try it.  
-I don't know, Sherlock, maybe I should give it a rest for a while.  
-What do you mean?  
Sherlock wasn't paying much attention; he was apparently analyzing the contents of the plate with scientific rigor before making his next choice.  
John didn't want to tell Sherlock he was feeling insecure about his weight, so he quickly changed the subject.  
-Why do you think Mrs. Hudson keeps leaving so much food in our fridge? She has being buying from the pastry shop almost every day now, and this week only she has cooked us dinner three times. Don't you think it's a little weird?  
Sherlock lifted his eyes from the chocolate covered cookie he had chosen and looked at him with such intensity John believed he could read his thoughts. He probably could.  
-Why does it matter?  
John was almost certain that Sherlock knew exactly what was going through his mind, and couldn't help but turn bright red with shame.  
-It doesn't. I just…  
-Is this about you gaining weight?  
John was befuddled for a second. He knew Sherlock was… honest, to say the least, but he wasn't expecting such a direct statement. For a moment he didn't know what to say. Sherlock took his silence as a sign to continue talking.  
-You are being ridiculous, John, you can afford a couple of pounds.  
John crossed his arms around his chest, partly in anger, partly in a desperate attempt to cover his midsection.  
-Maybe you can, Sherlock, but I certainly cannot. I've been packing on like crazy and I need to stop.  
Sherlock chuckled in amusement.  
-So what? So have I.  
John wasn't sure of what to answer. It was true that Sherlock had gained quite a bit too, but he didn't want to tell him to lose it; as absurd as it sounded, John liked seeing Sherlock's small belly poking out of his pants most of the time.  
Sherlock finished his cookie in one bite and resumed the conversation.  
-To be quite honest, I think you look better this way.  
John snickered  
-How? Fat?  
-Yes.  
Sherlock smiled. John wasn't sure why, but he suddenly felt a familiar warmth in his lower belly.  
-Now if you please…  
Sherlock motioned him to keep eating; his eyes fixated on John.  
John complied; he took a large bite off his tart with the certainty that he liked where this whole situation was heading.


	4. Winter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John was some trouble keeping his weight under control during the holidays. Established JohnxSherlock with John as the gainer and Sherlock as the very, very pleased FA

Winter was always awful, awful to him. It had never bothered him too much before, he had learned to live with it, but John had the annoying and certainly useless ability to gain weight faster than any other human being he had ever met. He was never terribly overweight though; he was a military man and a doctor and he usually took tremendous care of his  
body, but winter was always awful, awful to him.  
This year was undoubtedly no exception, John was never very fond of the cold; he would not go outside unless he absolutely had to, and spent hours writing on his blog, working on medical records, helping Sherlock with his 'experiments' or simply watching telly. Let's just say he wasn't getting as much exercise as he used to. But the food, of course was the worst part; with the holidays, Mrs Hudson's cooking… he had also concluded that sending Sherlock to the store was not a good idea in the least; he would arrive home with anything but what was on the list John gave him –John could forget about vegetables alright-. On the bright side, they had made amazing discoveries in the culinary department, so he was grateful for that. Alas, in conclusion, John had been putting on a couple of pounds almost weekly since the beginning of winter.  
He didn't mind terribly that his clothes felt tighter and his belly poked out of his trousers ever so slightly; that was nothing a big, warm, knitted sweater couldn't hide perfectly fine. He had an entirely different problem; there was no way, no way on this earth Sherlock was ever seeing him naked like that. John had heard Sherlock tease his brother about his diet innumerable times, and he was terrified, to say the least, that Sherlock would sneer at his weight in contempt too. So the weeks went by and John's clear determination to lose the weight had transformed into mild intention, sad disappointment and not-too-helpful-in-his-current-situation stress eating.  
Sherlock didn't even seem to notice they were not having sex. It seemed the man could go years without –unlike John, who was getting slightly desperate, may I add- and not once in that entire time he questioned John's decision to 'go to bed early'.  
That night too, with half a doughnut in one hand and half already in his belly, he got up from his chair with the sole intention of going to his bedroom and getting some sleep. Sherlock, it seemed, had other intentions.  
-Where are you going?  
John, that wasn't expecting Sherlock's intervention, stopped in the act looking mildly confused.  
-I… to bed. Just to bed.  
He pointed to the bedroom, trying his hardest to look as innocent as possible.  
-Wait for me.  
Sherlock stood up and passed right by John, heading to the room. He turned around for a second and motioned him to follow. John's throat was in a knot, knowing what was coming, but he followed anyway. When he entered the bedroom Sherlock was already getting rid of his shirt.  
-Sherlock, please, I'm sorry but I'm really tired tonight. I just want to go to bed.  
Sherlock sighed and turned to face him, arms crossed around his bare chest. God, he was so thin.  
-Cut it, John, we both know what's really happening here.  
John swallowed.  
-We… we do?  
Sherlock didn't even try to hide the contemptuous grin  
-Please.  
John's eyes lowered to the ground while he tried to find the right words to explain himself.  
-I'm sorry Sherlock, I really am. I know I haven't been trying my best to lose it…  
He was cut by Sherlock's mouth practically colliding with his. After a couple of seconds Sherlock broke the kiss and looked at John in the eyes.  
-Don't you dare, don't you dare lose a pound, John Watson  
John hadn't a clue of what was happening at that moment. He might have looked baffled because Sherlock continued talking.  
-I didn't say anything before because I feared you would be somehow offended but…John, I know you were ashamed of your body but I find it…  
He placed a slightly shaky hand on John's protruding tummy.  
-Perfect. Just perfect.  
It was Sherlock's turn now to look to the ground in shame.  
-I can't keep lying to you. And I can't resist you anymore. Please, John.  
Those few seconds of silence seemed to last an eternity. John couldn't articulate a word. He thought Sherlock would be upset, not turned on. Not that he was complaining…  
Oh, the hell with it! John took a step closer to Sherlock and kissed him with a passion neither had experienced in months. Oh God, he had missed him. John put his arms around Sherlock's waist and drew him tighter. He could hear the muffled moan Sherlock couldn't suppress when he felt John's belly so close to his groin. Sherlock placed his hands on John's sides and started to gently squeeze the fat there.  
-John, are you sure you are okay?  
-Are you kidding? I feel fantastic.  
-Good. Take off your shirt.  
It was the first time John was in front of Sherlock like that for simply too long. It seemed like Sherlock couldn't believe his eyes. Before John could react he went on his knees and started laying light kisses on his flabby stomach. John wasn't sure why, but it felt marvelous. He started wiggling and moaning at Sherlock's touch at an embarrassing fast rate. Soon enough, Sherlock had reached John's zipper and freed his erection. His warm breath on his cock was impossibly delightful.  
-Sit down on the bed.  
As Sherlock got rid of his on trousers, John complied and was amazed at how the fat on his tummy covered about half of his erect cock. He felt his face go warmer in shame but Sherlock wasn't in the least bothered.  
-God John, you are perfect.  
He leaned to take his erection in his mouth, slowly at first, teasing the tip with his tongue and making sure he was sucking on every last inch, but when he put one of his hands on his own erection and the other on Johns midsection, caressing and squeezing on handfuls of fat, the rhythm began to accelerate almost violently.  
John had been reduced to a moaning, quivering mess. One of his hands was tangled in Sherlock's curls, the other grabbing to the sheets of the bed for dear life. He could see his own belly go up and down with the thrusts of his hips and actually understood that Sherlock found it so erotic.  
Sherlock came with a deep growl and let go of John's dick. A second later he was besides him on the bed, kissing his neck and pumping him with his slick hand. John came just a few strokes later, whimpering Sherlock's name.  
They lay there for a couple of minutes, trying to catch their breaths. John had never felt so relieved in his life. Sherlock looked fairly satisfied with the whole thing too.  
-Sherlock…  
-Hm?  
-Do we have any more doughnuts?  
Sherlock chuckled and kissed him on the lips.  
-Of course we do.


	5. Feed Me Silly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After Reichenbach Mycroft is barely eating. When Sherlock returns so does Mycroft's appetite...and a lot of extra pounds! This suits Lestrade just fine.

He sat on the table staring at the wall in front of him.  
It had been a couple of months now since Sherlock had 'come back from the dead' and things were not looking good at all for Mycroft. You see, when his brother faked his suicide, Mycroft was quite aware that he wasn't actually dead, a fact which did not stop him from worrying sick about him, quite literally. He was used to having Sherlock under constant surveillance -God knew what that boy was capable of getting himself into- and having to get accustomed to not hearing from him in months was quite the stress inducer for Mycroft. His eating habits bordered in the anorexic; he had lost so much weight people actually started to worry about his health, especially Greg. He would constantly nag him on how thin he was and trying to get him to eat something, anything at all.  
Well, after Sherlock came back, Greg got his wish granted; Mycroft was finally able to relax and enjoy his meals like he used to, probably even more. Evidently even more. A few months after Sherlock's return Mycroft had already gained back all the weight he had lost and maybe some. He had always enjoyed food a little too much –Sherlock didn't miss a chance to remind him that-, but this time it was simply ridiculous; he would eat constantly, from celeriac and parsnip soup with crisped shallots and parsley to cheeseburgers and chocolate chips pancakes. All food was good enough for him, everywhere and at every hour. He just couldn't control his appetite; as hard as he tried he would always succumb to another slice of cake or one more piece of French toast.  
He looked down at his –Christ, huge- empty plate of lasagna rolls and tried not to think of dessert. He knew there was crème brulee and chocolate fudge brownies in the kitchen but he had promised himself he wouldn't tonight. He absently rubbed his stomach and was surprised at how flabby it had gotten in so little time. He was well aware that he was still hungry, but he gathered all his strength and denied himself more food.  
At that very same moment Greg walked through the door. He was holding a small box and looked radiant with glee. Mycroft felt his heart sink in his chest.  
-I brought tiramisu! I know it's your favorite and it's been ages since I've had some. Shall I bring the plates?  
Mycroft was torn. He could either make an excuse and go to bed right then and there or enjoy a piece of creamy, caffeinated goodness with the love of his life.  
He smiled  
-I'll get them.  
Greg sighed in frustration. He hadn't been able to tell Mycroft how he really felt and it was simply driving him insane. They had been in a relationship for some time now, they adored each other and the sex was good too, but ever since Mycroft started gaining weight it just got better and better. At first he was simply glad that Mycroft was eating again and getting his weight back to normal, but as he kept gaining Greg just couldn't ignore the fact that his attraction towards him was growing even more each day. Just watching him eat was the biggest turn on; imagining that all that food would soon turn into pounds of soft fat… He couldn't even think too much about it. He had always known he had a thing for chubby guys, but he wouldn't have imagined that it would ever become a reality, and now that he was in that situation he simply didn't know how to react. God, just seeing him get dressed in the morning, belly rebelling against those too tight trousers… Ugh, he needed to stop. He knew couldn't keep feeding him for much longer or he'd notice. So he was faced with a choice, he could either tell Mycroft what was really going on or let him figure it out himself, like he eventually would. Greg wasn't sure which one wasn't going to get him beaten to death by Mycroft's 'private agents', so he kept it to himself while he decided.

Watching Mycroft eat tiramisu was like watching a piece of performance art. Soft lips sucking on the very last bits on his spoon, long fingers being licked, moans of pleasure and eyes half-closed… Greg was having the hardest time concentrating on his own plate. He couldn't take his eyes off of him and it would soon start to become evident. When Mycroft's eyes met his, he knew the next words he uttered would be his last.

-Is something the matter?

Mycroft's voice sounded cold and demanding. Greg swallowed hard. Well, the decision had been made for him, after all. It was now or never, he told himself.

-I have something to tell you

He had never seen Mycroft sit up so straight. He looked a little bit in pain. Greg didn't know where to begin; no words seemed to fit the situation at all.

-There's something… I don't know how to put it in words, because I'm afraid that what I'm about to say will hurt you, and that's the last thing I want to do. You are the person that I love most in this world.

He took a second to breathe.

-Ever since Sherlock came back…

He stopped himself and started again

-Mycroft, I know you are having the worst time controlling yourself, and I haven't been very helpful.

He pointed at the empty box lying on the table between them. Mycroft looked as if he was being confronted with swords and guns. Greg didn't know a man could turn into such a furious shade of red. He went on before the knot in his throat went bigger.

-That's because I… like it. I like it. That's the truth. I find the fact that you have gained weight so attractive I can hardly keep my hands to myself. Mycroft, I fell like a teenage boy when I'm around you, I'm sorry if this offends you but I can't hide it any longer. I'm sorry.

He instinctively looked away. The damage was done.

-I'm so glad it was that option.

Mycroft's calm voice appeared to come from very far away. Greg's eyes opened like plates when we realized that he had heard right.

-I-I'm sorry?

Mycroft allowed himself a little smug smile.

-It was evident that there was something the matter with you, and I was certain it involved my weight; the signs were all there. The tricky part was deciding whether you loved it or hated it. I'm just glad it was the first option. Thank you for telling me.

Greg allowed himself to relax just a bit

-So you are not upset?

-I hardly believe that this is something you decided to find attractive, this seems evident even to me, for whom the dimensions of human sexuality remain an utter mystery… I am somehow flattered, I must admit, and relieved that you still find me attractive, even though…

He looked at his stomach with slight disgust. Well, Mycroft was not very happy with his weight, apparently, but Greg would show him to appreciate it. He started to breathe close to normally again. He had never been so thankful for anything in the length of his existence.  
Mycroft stared at his lunch once again; yes, it still looked tasteless and tiny. He had agreed with Greg that he would stay on his diet during the day and when they saw each other at night he would indulge on whatever Greg had decided to bring home. He probably wouldn't be losing any weight, but at least he had stopped gaining uncontrollably. Greg was happy, he was happy; it was a win-win.

It had been a week since this agreement and Mycroft was already beginning to regret it. He had already finished eating lunch but he could still feel his stomach rumble. If he could just have a little something more it wouldn't be so difficult for him to concentrate on work later. He knew he would have to spend the rest of the afternoon dealing with so much he almost couldn't stop himself from calling his PA and telling her to go to the bakery down the street. Every time Mycroft walked by that bakery his body betrayed him; he would stop stare inside the window like a four-year-old at a toy store. He should have that freaking place bombed, it was too distracting. He decided he should get back to work before he actually gave the order.

Most of the afternoon was busy enough to keep him distracted, but tea time was invariably a big trigger for him. It was so easy for him to rationalize that having a couple of biscuits wasn't really that bad if he didn't put sugar on his tea or that cheesecake wasn't made of dough so it wasn't really cake. That afternoon was easier than ever; he had been dealing with a lot, he was nervous and jumpy and he needed some carbs in his body right then and there or he would simply lose it. Greg didn't have to find out, no harm would be done. He hadn't even finished sitting down and he already had the éclair in his mouth. He felt so, so much better.

That evening he arrived to the house with his mouth already watering. Greg had been hinting chocolate mousse with raspberries, but Mycroft wasn't sure he could be that lucky. When he opened the door Greg greeted him with a smile. He asked about Mycroft's day and Mycroft told him the highlights. Nothing too interesting.

-Are you sure? There's nothing else you want to tell me.

Oh, God. He knew. He tried to keep his composure. He spoke as neutrally as he could manage.

-No, that is all.

Greg's smile turned positively mischievous.

-Really? So you didn't cheat on your diet?

Should he keep lying? How could he possibly know? He let out a nervous laugh.

-That's preposterous!

Greg took his phone out of his pocket.

-Then why do I have this text from your PA saying that you had, and I quote: 'three cupcakes, two éclairs and a cappuccino sundae'?

He showed Mycroft the message. He was speechless. He adored his PA and never was one for swearing… but that bitch!

-Don't be too hard on her, she just worries about you.

Greg came closer and put his arms around his waist. He ran his hands on Mycroft's sides.

-You are one greedy little boy, aren't you? You cheated on your diet and weren't going to tell me!

Mycroft bit his lower lip and smiled in defeat.

-Fine, you are right; I lied. I fell off the wagon. How hard is this going to be on me?

Greg let out a laugh.

-Thinking of the consequences already? Well, you know I can't be too strict with you, I just can't resist you. So this time I'll let it pass.

Mycroft openly smiled and laid a soft kiss on Greg's lips.

-Thank God, I've been thinking of chocolate mousse all day.

Greg couldn't contain his surprise.

-How could you possibly…!

He sighed and kissed Mycroft again.

-Nevermind. I'll bring the plates.


	6. Help Yourself

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pre-series 1. Mycroft and Sherlock fancy Lestrade. They both think he'll choose Sherlock because of Mycroft's weight. They couldn't be more wrong.

.I  
Sherlock and Mycroft stared longingly at the man leaving through the flat's door. Ever since they had met, both brothers had been smitten with the Detective Inspector. They knew it would be a challenge worthy of them to get to him; married, though unhappily, and painfully in denial of his –at least- bisexuality. Not to add that they would have to outdo each other to win the man's affections.  
Mycroft stared at his brother's smug grin. They both knew he was in clear disadvantage; popular opinion stated that Sherlock had gotten all the good genes as far as appearance went. He had the beautiful face, the chiseled body, the seductively low voice… he even smelled nice most of the time, even if he decided showering was boring for a week or so. Mycroft felt nothing but contempt for his brother at the moment. It had been a long time since he felt for someone the way he did for Lestrade, and he didn't want to lose him, not to Sherlock.  
His younger brother let out an almost silent laugh while looking at Mycroft from head to toe, stopping for a moment in his midsection.  
-You must be insane, dear brother, if you think for a second that he'd lay eyes on you with me in the room.  
He had summarized all of Mycroft's thoughts in one, terribly hurtful phrase. Mycroft had to admit that he had let himself go a little as of late. Unlike his brother, he did have a tendency to overeat and, consequently, to gain weight. Lately he had been cheating on his so-called diet more often than not and it was beginning to show, especially around the middle, where his trousers started to dig in a little bit… much to Sherlock's delight.  
Mycroft simply smiled at his brother and made an inner promise to start watching what he ate those days.  
-We'll see. Good evening, Sherlock  
.II  
Mycroft stared down at his plate and sneered. That thing he had just eaten could not be considered a proper meal under any circumstances. Perhaps, he thought, he could help himself to a little treat of the hundreds that Sherlock appeared to be sending his way lately. It wasn't a brilliant strategy to make him gain weight but what baffled Mycroft the most was that it seemed to be actually working. He absently ran a hand over his protruding belly. He wasn't losing any weight; that much he knew. Oh, who was that 'diet' fooling anyway? Would it really hurt that much if he had just one tiny, little piece of cake?  
If he had known Lestrade was on his way to his office he would at least have made the piece a little smaller. When the DI walked through his door he was face-first into his plate. Now, Mycroft wasn't a messy eater -quite the opposite, really- but there was no mistaking his actions in that particular situation: fork on the way to his mouth, chocolate glaze dripping from it, and an expression of utter joy on his face. He could almost see the amused smile on Lestrade's face as he stared silently, seemingly at a loss for words. Mycroft could feel the blood rushing to his cheeks. He couldn't have imagined a more embarrassing situation if he tried.  
Trying his best to keep his composure, he cleared his throat, lowered the fork to his plate and motioned the DI to come in and sit down. Lestrade did his best to act unaffected but from time to time he eyed the enormous piece of cake still sitting on Mycroft's desk.  
-I'm terribly sorry to bother you; you know I wouldn't if I didn't need to...  
-Please, Gregory; it's always a pleasure to help you.  
He had, on several occasions, assisted the DI on some cryptic case Sherlock wouldn't take or -as much as he regretted to admit- couldn't solve. It wasn't much of a pleasure for him to do so, but to have and excuse to spend a couple of minutes with Lestrade was simply bliss.  
They spent some time talking about the case, which turned out to be quite puzzling but certainly not impossible. Mycroft had a couple of theories that, if proven true, would definitely alleviate Lestrade's work a great deal.  
-Dear God, Mycroft, I don't even know how to thank you anymore.  
An idea flew through Mycroft's mind, swift as light and almost too timid to turn into words. He spoke before he would change his mind.  
-Dinner, perhaps? Are you busy tonight?  
He almost regretted the words when he saw the look on Lestrade's face. He was most definitely surprised, shocked to be quite honest. He wasn't really horrified, at least, but he was almost there.  
-Um… No. I mean yes! I mean…  
He paused for a second to try to find the words. Mycroft found it quite nerve wrecking but tried not to let it show too much.  
-No; I'm not busy tonight. Um, dinner would be… good. Yes, good.  
He let out a nervous laugh. Mycroft almost sighed in relief, but he was able to contain himself.  
-Say, seven? I'll have a car pick you up.  
Lestrade was silent for and instant. His smile was sad as he began speaking in a softer voice than before.  
-I'm not currently staying at home. You see, me and the wife…  
-You don't have to explain. I am aware of your situation. Seven it is then?  
Mycroft felt somehow concerned that Lestrade would be offended by the fact that he knew so much about his personal life, but he appeared to be quite relieved, in fact. He smiled an honest smile then.  
-Seven would be great.  
.III  
Mycroft stared at his reflection in the mirror for the hundredth time that evening. He wasn't exactly pleased with the way his clothes fit -or didn't fit, more like- but he decided that that suit would be his best option for the night. Elegant, discrete and not to too unyielding… 'For now' added his mind in a flash of cruelness. Trying not to think too much about the man in the mirror he drew in a deep breath and headed outside.  
On his way to Lestrade's place his phone buzzed and lit up. Staring at him from the screen was a text message from Sherlock. Wasn't it a bit predictable, perhaps?  
I hope you enjoy your food tonight. Then again, you always do. SH  
Mycroft was feeling too anxious already to allow himself to be disturbed by Sherlock's message. He quickly typed a response just as the car parked at its destination.  
I will enjoy the company even more. MH  
As the DI got in the car Mycroft's phone disappeared into his pocket for the rest of the night.  
The conversation between them was surprisingly animated. They had almost always discussed business and it was a pleasant turn of events to find out they could actually talk to each other about other things; not awkward silences, no small talk for the most part. Mycroft actually smiled to himself in relief a couple of times, while Gregory was monopolizing the conversation.  
Gregory's face when arriving at the restaurant was priceless. Mycroft knew he had probably never set foot on a place that distinguished and he was doing a terrible job at hiding it too. He smiled in amusement and declared:  
-Don't worry. I'll take care of the bill.  
Gregory laughed but didn't contradict him. The poor man would most likely have to sell his house to pay even for dessert.  
They were placed and served almost immediately, as it was customary for Mycroft. Things were going smoothly so far, so he allowed himself to relax a bit and enjoy his meal. Not his brightest idea. Gregory's question caught him with a not-so-small piece of meat in mid-swallow. It is a wonder he didn't choke to death.  
-Mycroft, I've been meaning to ask you; this… isn't a date… Is it?  
Mycroft struggled not to die from asphyxiation for a couple of seconds, which also gave him the time to think of a moderately appropriate response.  
-It is whatever you want it to be. It may be just a dinner between good friends if that makes you feel less uncomfortable.  
Gregory sat back on his seat and smiled broadly  
-Actually, I was kind of expecting it was. A date, I mean. I'm having fun, really. I'm glad you asked me to come, Mycroft.  
Gregory's smile was timid but honest. Mycroft could feel the piece of meat being released from the knot on his chest and finally descending to his stomach.  
.IV  
Sherlock was positively furious when he found out everything had gone so amazingly between his brother and his prospective boyfriend. Mycroft wouldn't let the opportunity to see his brother in such a state if it cost him his life. Which it probably would.  
He made sure to arrive unannounced to his place one afternoon 'merely by chance' when Lestrade was discussing a case with Sherlock. He sat down next to him, a hand brushing his knee on occasion, devious grin glued on his face.  
If Lestrade noticed the building tension between the Holmes brothers he didn't show it at all. He actually looked quite comfortable giving Mycroft enamored looks and pecks on the cheek under Sherlock's death-glare. Mycroft could have sworn he was in fact doing it to piss off his brother even more. He was in heaven.  
Sherlock had made a couple of remarks of what a terrible couple they made, or how he could not imagine how someone would want to date Mycroft for other reason that money, but they just both laughed it off.  
-But of course, it is a surprise to us all, Detective Inspector, that you have so blatantly chosen to disclose your preference for, how shall I put it? Larger men.  
Mycroft's chuckle was not joined by Lestrade's this time. For a second both Holmes brothers were oblivious of what had just happened, even looking at the man's now bright red face. And then it hit Mycroft in the chest like a bag of rocks: it was true.  
.V  
In a split of a second Mycroft went from white, to pale green, to furious red. He simply couldn't believe what he had just heard; it was preposterous! Even Sherlock remained speechless as Gregory tried to articulate something similar to a proper English phrase, very unsuccessfully.  
-I-I promise it's not like that at all, Mycroft. It's not that I like you because of that. I mean I like that, but not… I mean it's not the only thing I like about you. I like all of you, I do, I swear.  
Mycroft closed his eyes for a second. He tried to figure out what he was feeling at that moment, which was a remarkably difficult task. He was ashamed, yes -Sherlock's gaze was not very forgiving- but he could not bring himself to be angry. A part of his brain wondered, could he really blame Gregory for his… what to call it? taste? Unusual as it were. It wasn't news to him that the man liked him physically.  
-Are you attracted to me because of my weight, Gregory?  
Lestrade swallowed with some difficulty.  
-I am attracted to you because of who you are. Your mind, your face, your laugh and…  
He sighed before finishing the sentence.  
-Yes. Your weight too.  
He lowered his head a bit in defeat.  
-I'm sorry.  
The corner of Mycroft's mouth twitched.  
-And what if… I decided to lose it.  
Sherlock's snort was short lived, since both other men stared at him with daggers in their eyes.  
-I would… complain a little, I admit it.  
He put his hand on Mycroft's arm.  
-But it is your body and I'd respect what you decide to do with it. And I'd support you no matter what.  
He still felt a bit offended, but decided he could live with this. He actually could.  
-And what if I decided…  
He eyed his brother mid-sentence to remind him to stay completely silent if he valued his life. Years of coexistence had helped him perfect that look.  
-…to gain a bit more.  
The room stood silent for a minute. Then Gregory finally decided to speak.  
-I… would respect that too. I really, really would.  
Mycroft allowed himself a little smile at last. He noticed he was feeling kind of relieved, actually.  
-Excellent. This dreadful diet was starting to get on my nerves, to be quite honest.  
He stood up to leave, Gregory following him right after.  
-So, you're not upset then?  
Mycroft grabbed him by the wrist and drew him close.  
-Quite surprisingly, not in the least.  
He was being quite honest too. It was high time he was loved for who he was, and began loving himself too.  
He laid a small kiss on the other man's lips and headed towards the door.  
-Dinner then? I'll make the reservations.  
Gregory stood there in disbelief for a moment, then looked at an even more confounded Sherlock Holmes and shrugged. He headed outside with the biggest grin on his face.  
.VI  
Mycroft traced the length of his index finger with his tongue for any remains of chocolate crème. He knew the effect that that small action would have on Gregory; without even a single glance, he was certain that his face at that sight would be positively devious. And he was absolutely right. Without so much as a warning the other man pressed his lips to Mycroft's, taking pleasure in the sweet taste of chocolate still lingering in his mouth. It was evident that Gregory had been waiting for this moment the entire meal –especially dessert-; his hands went straight to his midsection, no hesitation, no doubt. Mycroft had to laugh.  
-Again?  
Greg didn't sound as annoyed as one would have expected in that situation. He kept laying small kisses on Mycroft's jawline and unbuttoning his shirt.  
-I'm sorry, I'm sorry. It's just that I still can believe you like it so much, that's all.  
He eyed his own, now exposed, bulging belly. It was truly impressive how much he had gained in just a couple of weeks. It seemed that his middle was taking most of the weight, and it felt doughy and soft underneath his hands. And Gregory loved it. Mycroft… was coming to terms with it. He was enjoying himself to no end though, and it seemed that he had no plans to start his diet again any time soon. He simply loved food, and was having the greatest of times; being able to eat without having to worry about the consequences was a complete novelty for him.  
-But you are still ok with it?  
Mycroft let out a small laugh again. It seemed that Gregory was feeling more insecure about the whole deal than Mycroft ever did.  
-Of course I am.  
Their kiss was even more passionate this time around. While Mycroft grabbed onto the arms of his chair for dear life, Greg's hands could not stay still; Mycroft's chest, and legs, and stomach -of course-, and neck and stomach again... everything was caressed with skilled, eager hands. Mycroft could feel himself becoming undone. His breath was quickening, his temperature rising… When Gregory finally laid a not-so-timid hand on his crotch, Mycroft though it was going to end right then and there.  
Looking up, he saw the mischievous look on Greg's eyes, and immediately after his face lowered to his neck and started sucking ever so slightly. It was bliss.  
For a split of a second Mycroft thought about his trousers, that would be irremediably ruined, but he was distracted then by Gregory going lower to his chest and then to his softened tummy. He stopped kissing for a second, carefully squeezed a flabby roll and let out a pleased moan. He resumed his kissing and undid Mycroft's trousers with a velocity that Mycroft had not witnessed before. Gregory took out the other man's erection with one hand while he undid his own pants with the other. He started to pump himself as slowly as he could while licking the length of Mycroft's cock. At that point, Mycroft was finally able to let go of the chair and set a hand on the base of Gregory's neck.  
When Greg started sucking Mycroft became a moaning, wiggling mess. Gregory had to stop him from moving so much by laying his free hand over his hip. He took the opportunity to also gently squish his lovehandles with each thrust.  
Mycroft became bedazzled at the sight of his own belly, going up and down with each movement, flabbier than ever, and wondered if Greg was enjoying himself as much as he was. His constant whimpering and squishing and sucking suggested he was.  
Greg came with a low growl, never letting go of Mycroft. Mycroft knew he was awfully close, so he brought one hand over Greg's to let him know. He looked up but didn't stop, just increased the pace. After a few more seconds he came inside his mouth as hard as he ever had.  
Greg went to sit on Mycroft's lap and they both stayed there silently for a minute, trying to regain their breaths.  
After a while, Greg noticed that Mycroft was discretely looking at something behind him. He turned around and immediately discovered what it was.  
-Are you… are you eyeing the rest of the cake? Mycroft, you had two pieces just now.  
Mycroft realized that denying anything would be useless. He couldn't help blushing a little, though.  
-Gregory, look at me in the eye and tell me you are not letting me have one more piece. Darling, I dare you.  
Greg immediately stood up and went for the knife. The slice he cut was the biggest Mycroft had seen in all his life.


	7. Twenty Minutes

Mycroft kept fidgeting in his seat. The time had come, once more, to resume his long abandoned diet, after having gained well over twenty pounds in the previous couple of months. The creaking of his chair and the strain of his clothes were more than a mere indication that it was high time for him to stop making excuses for himself. He checked his watch, which indicated it was well after six. He stared at the phone on his desk with pursed lips. Now, dieting was never particularly easy for him –most of the time it was quite torturous, in fact-, but he could manage, for the most part. However, if he was planning on rapidly losing more than twenty pounds, well… he looked down and gazed upon his overfed belly. With a loud sigh, he pressed a white button on his phone.

-Anthea, please bring me my clothes. I’ll meet you upstairs in ten minutes. 

-Of course, sir. 

The black bag was placed by the side of his desk by his secretary, who then left swiftly and without saying a word. As soon as the door closed behind her, he opened the zipper and stared at the contents with a grim look on his face. 

Exactly ten minutes later, Anthea greeted him with a fleeting smile as he entered the gymnasium. He felt positively ridiculous in his sports gear, but she really didn’t seem to even notice the change. As he climbed onto the treadmill, she kept typing furiously on her phone. 

-Ten minutes will be fine, for a start.

Without looking away from her phone, she raised an eyebrow.

-We’ve discussed this already. Twenty minutes. 

He scowled but said nothing as he pushed the buttons and set the machine for twenty minutes at a fairly slow pace.

Mycroft could feel his stomach jiggle with every step he took, and he kept having to pull his shirt down, as it rid up over his belly mercilessly. He silently thanked the heavens for being alone with Anthea at the gym that night. Company would have only made him more miserable. 

It didn’t take too long for Mycroft to run out of breath. He huffed loudly, he contorted his face, he cleaned the sweat off his forehead more than once, but Anthea was immutable. He checked the clock on the machine and groaned. He knew he wasn’t going to last another eight minutes on that hellish contraption, but Anthea was there to make sure he did. 

He kept running, but he slyly drew his hand closer to the console in front of him while she wasn’t looking. He was incredibly close to pushing the stop button when Anthea’s iron fingers grabbed onto his wrist. She had never raised her eyes from her phone. 

-Anthea, I’m exhausted.

His voice was breathier than he had expected.

-Seven more minutes, sir.  
-I… I honestly can’t.

She didn’t answer that time, and Mycroft resented being ignored.

-Do I at least get to… you know.

Anthea eyed the purse by her feet for a fraction of a second and Mycroft smiled.

Exactly three more minutes went by, and Mycroft’s excitement about the incentive on Anthea’s purse had faded away completely. This time he was fast enough to avoid Anthea’s grip, and the machine came to a sudden stop. A completely worn out Mycroft Holmes spent a whole minute trying to regain his breath while still standing on it. His PA had finally put her phone away and was staring at him with pursed lips. She was clutching onto her purse for dear life. Mycroft was still breathing heavily when he spoke.

-Anthea…

-Don’t even think about it.

-I was just three minutes short!

-Four. 

He remained silent for a second, as he, not too dignifiedly, bit his lower lip. 

-Please? I’ll do those four minutes next time, I promise. 

Now it was her turn to stay silent for a bit, as she considered her options. A second later, two chocolate-covered, cream-filled donuts emerged from her purse.

-One would think I would have learnt you are full of crap by now.

He took one donut in each hand, and took an eager bite from each with a relieved sigh. She shook her head with a resigned smile. 

-Maybe one day, darling.


	8. Breakfast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock loves teasing John about his weight. John loves being teased.

John rolled on the bed. It was what he did mostly these days, -on the weekends’ mornings, at least- rolling on the bed, and waiting for Sherlock to come into the room with trays and trays overflowing with food.  
It had started slow, of course, -an invite to dinner here, a gift from the pastry down the corner there…- but soon enough they both understood what was going on, and, more importantly, that they both enjoyed it.

As Sherlock approached the bed, John could see the devious smile already forming on his face.

-Hungry?

John sat up immediately as Sherlock laid the tray on the bedside table. 

-Aren’t you going to eat anything?

-Perhaps later.

He sat on the edge of the bed and gave John an unmistakable look. He complied with the implicit order and began eating joyfully. It wasn’t long before three pieces of strawberry cake, a small mountain of hotcakes and a tall glass of chocolate milk disappeared never to be seen again.   
John put the tray away and, with a satisfied smile, collapsed into bed again. Sherlock slithered besides him, a bony hand caressing his bloated stomach.

-So soft. 

He pinched a flabby roll.

-You ought to be ashamed of yourself, letting yourself go like this. 

John unwittingly bit his lower lip, half ashamed, half aroused. He put his hand over Sherlock’s and pushed it into his own fat. Sherlock gave a surprised gasp.

-Oh. 

He slided closer, their bellies almost touching; Sherlock’s hard and taut, John’s bulging and soft. They could feel the heat their bodies were irradiating, even if they were not actually touching each others’ skin. 

-Maybe I should make you do a couple of pushups, do you think you can manage that? Or are you too much of a fatty already? I bet that belly will pin you right to the floor, I don’t think you would even be able to manage a single one without going out of breath.

John squished his own belly with both hands. 

-Oh, please don’t make me do pushups.

Sherlock smiled and clicked his tongue.

-So lazy. No wonder you’ve gotten so plump. I should put you on a diet.

He wouldn’t. John knew he wouldn’t, but he played along. He held Sherlock tight, surrounding him with his arms, letting him feel his whole body engulfing his slim one. 

-I know I should cut back, but I just can’t! Everything’s too good, Sherlock.

Sherlock was wordless for a moment, just laying kisses all over John. His heavy breathing on his skin was more than John could bear. 

-You are such a glutton, aren’t you? How many pairs of trousers have you outgrown already? Shameful, spilling out all over your clothes…

John was far beyond words by now. It always amazed him how Sherlock could keep speaking right till the end. He could never master the ability.

-Ah, Jesus, Sherlock!

Sherlock had grabbed their erections together and was pumping at an increasingly fast pace. They wouldn’t last long. 

-It wouldn’t kill you to be on top for once, John. You could use the exercise. 

He was right, of course. John was so out of breath that he wouldn’t have dreamed of replying. He was terribly out of shape.   
Sherlock came on top of him. A few more strokes and he was done as well. Sherlock collapsed by his side, covered in sweat.

-That wasn’t the only breakfast we had, was it?

Sherlock turned to look at him with a toothy smile.

-Of course not.


End file.
